Good Morning
by Rainbow Breaker
Summary: Draco Malfoy hates mornings. And he's got every right to. Take, for instance, his lonely childhood, when mornings meant nothing more than a time to crawl out of bed. Can a pretty bookworm change his take on that horrendous time of day? One-Shot. Repost this, after hiatus.


**A/N: The "Dramione in the morning" cliché. I really like this one. It made me smile just writing it. Thank you for reading!**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter

Good Morning

"Good morning."

What a horrid phrase. No one likes mornings; therefore, to wish someone a 'good' morning is not only counter-productive, but it also verges on sadistic.

When I was a little boy my House Elf, Darly, would wake me up with a nasally "good morning." She was always there to explain to me why my parents were too busy to be bothered with me that morning, or to be bothered with me at all, for that matter. Those mornings were hardly ever good.

This phrase particularly bothered me when I was a young man in Hogwarts. Students were forced from their safe and warm beds at inhumane hours to trek down the cold, dank corridors to begin the mundane task of learning. The professors would wish us all a "good morning," and then they would be sure to proceed in assigning us work until all hopes of a "good morning" were firmly dashed.

"Good morning" came to hold an even deeper irony when I began to work for the Dark Lord. Voldemort got a particular satisfaction out of wishing his Death Eaters a "good morning." I knew every time I stood amongst the masked Wizards and saw the grotesque tattoo on my arm that it was the farthest thing possible from a "good morning." Sometimes I questioned if it could even be considered a 'good' life.

This morning, blinding sunshine was seeping through a crack in the overly embellished red drapes that hung from the window in my room. My wife insisted that they were more of a rose shade, but it didn't matter. She had turned our bedroom red.

The sunlight played upon my eyelids until I was forced to crack one of my sleepy lids open. Quite a sight awaited my gaze.

My three year old son was wrapped firmly around my leg. His thick blond hair was severely tousled, and he was hazardously entangled among the putrid red sheets of my bed. I vaguely remembered him coming in earlier in the night because of a nightmare. He had originally positioned himself directly between his mother and me, but I suppose the appeal to strangle the life out of my leg had won in the end. I smiled at my boy who had undoubtedly inherited his restless sleeping habits from his mother.

Speaking of which, my wife had my arm firmly in her grasp. I noticed with pride that both of them were rather strong even in their subconscious efforts. My wife's bushy hair was slung over her pillow with the ends of her curls creeping toward me. I had my other arm slung over her swollen waist and was clutching her possessively to me. Perhaps, Scorpius had inherited his sleeping habits from the both of us.

I silently brushed a kiss across my wife's forehead. I watched in ill-suppressed glee as a small smile curled the corners of her lips. I then set to work to disentangle myself from my red blankets and my family's grasp.

I finally worked Scorpius free and gently laid him next to his mother. He snuggled deeper in my pillow as I slipped away to take a shower. Hermione hugged an extra pillow to her in my absence.

Just for once, I'd like to not go in to work with those idiots who had the audacity to call themselves my colleagues. I knew that Hermione would never allow it though. She had put a lot of effort into securing a job for me after everything that had happened with the war. I suppose that I should be thankful that I even got a job at the Ministry.

I sighed as I stepped out of the shower. I used my wand to dry my hair and to perform a shaving spell. Hermione had attempted to introduce me to those Muggle razors, but my first attempt resulted in a rather nasty cut and my darling wife laughing at my gushing wound. I had decided that razors drew more blood then they were worth.

I shouldered into my business-like black robes and was ready for another day at work. Another day of mindless paper work, pointless appointments, and empty "good mornings." The depression was enough to make me want to crawl back into bed with my family and give life another try tomorrow. But when I stepped into my bedroom I found that my wife was already gone, and she had taken our son with her. I left the room to go find them.

I walked straight down to the kitchen. I had tried to make Hermione see the reasoning behind a House Elf or two, especially now that she was a mother. I had even offered to pay the creatures for their work, but she adamantly refused. It was there in the kitchen that I found her.

Her bushy hair was tied into a messy knot at the back of her head. A few loose curls had sprung loose, framing her makeup–less face. Scorpius had apparently spilt his cup of juice all over the floor. Hermione was standing barefoot in front of the stove, one hand placed upon her heavily pregnant belly, and the other she was using to scramble eggs. She wasn't even watching what she was doing as she directed Scorpius in cleaning up his mess.

She turned her head back to the stove to expertly move the eggs off of the burner. I quickly swished my wand in the direction of Scorpius, clearing his juice mess away instantaneously. I shoved my wand into the pocket of my robe before Hermione could notice. Scorpius was staring dazedly at the floor where the juice used to be. He held a rag in his chubby hands and blinked in confusion.

"I saw that, Draco," Hermione's voice cut through the covert looks that I was giving my son. I turned to give her a guilty smile, but she was facing the stove.

I walked up to her and placed my arms around her pregnant stomach. I crinkled my nose as I realized that she had burnt the eggs. It wasn't a new occurrence; she knew that she couldn't cook. She refused to use magic on something as ordinary as scrambling eggs. I humored her in her "Molly Weasley" endeavor, as I liked to call it, but I had eaten more burnt and undercooked food than any other man on earth. I probably had an amazing immune system.

"I'm sorry, Darling." I apologized to her. She turned around in my arms to give me a smile. She wrapped her arms around my neck. I was about to lean in for a kiss when Scorpius began to tug at my robes to get my attention.

He was chattering excitedly about how Mummy had used "majiks" to turn his toy kitty into a real one. He then proceeded in explaining to me that toy kitties don't bite or scratch or make him sick like real kitties do.

Hermione had been devastated when she learned that Scorpius was allergic to cats. Turning his stuffed toy cat into a real one must have been the best compromise she could come up with. I smiled at her ingenuity as I reached down to pick Scorpius up with one arm while using my other arm to hold Hermione.

Scorpius's sticky hands were messing up my robes. I raised an eyebrow at my wife when Scorpius began to tell me that Mummy had let him try on her makeup. Apparently, he was decidedly not as pretty as his mummy. Hermione gave me a sheepish grin.

"Good morning, Darling," Hermione said sweetly. I smiled at her through the thin layer of smoke that enveloped us through the burnt eggs. I took another step towards her and realized that the bottom of my shoes were a bit tacky from some juice that my wand had missed. I leaned toward Hermione. Scorpius's hands flew up to protect his eyes from the horrifying scene he was about to witness.

I kissed Hermione.

I pulled my head gently away from hers and tightened my grip around my family, being careful not to squish Scorpius's sister who had yet to make an appearance.

"Good morning," I whispered. And it was; burnt eggs, sticky clothes, red blankets, and all.


End file.
